“You are?” he asked.
Oh, hell, what was my name supposed to be? “Deborah…Perkins.” Perkins was the surname for perky pink characters. “And I’m sorry, I know you introduced yourself in the beginning, but I’ve forgotten.”
“Grant Walters. Pleased to meet you, Deborah. Or is it Debbie?” He again smiled.
“It can be either, Mr. Walters. My mother insists on Deborah. My friends call me Debbie.”
“Please, Grant. And I hope we’ll be friends, Debbie.”
“I have to be honest, sir, I mean, Grant, I’m interested, but I’m on a tight budget at the moment, so I can’t manage more than a small order right now.”
“Small is okay. I started small.” His face indicated he was pleased as punch to be spending his time taking a tiny order. Only the briefest sliding of his eyes to see who else was in the room betrayed him.
“Did you? That’s encouraging. I wouldn’t mind being where you are someday.” It was time to throw a little ambition in with the pink. Grant wanted a woman who could make him money—there was no flirting here. He was trying to seduce me, of course, but with no sex involved. His seduction was about power. He had staked me as the most promising prospect in the room and gone after me.
“So, tell me about yourself. Why do you want to be where I am now?”
I spun Debbie’s story. Recently divorced. Ex-husband was a lawyer, so she got just about nothing. Put him through law school, had planned to go herself, but they couldn’t afford two tuitions, so as any woman who favored pink would, she let him go first and did administrative work, had worked her way up to assisting one of the top executives in the export firm, but it had been badly damaged by Katrina, the boss took the insurance money and decided not to rebuild. I (as Debbie) stayed in the area because my husband still had his job, only to find out a year ago that he was sleeping with his secretary and wanted a divorce. It was hard to find work after the storm, so I was struggling, yadda, yadda.
“Why this product?” he asked.
“I don’t want to just make money. I’m getting old enough to worry about my health, my family’s health. It would be nice to combine doing okay and making a difference. Vincent intrigued me—about Nature’s Beautiful Gift,” I made clear. “I still had my questions, but thought I should check it out. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who would be part of a losing operation.” Two could play the seduction game. “And it was your talk that made me decide maybe I could do this. I’d like to go back to college, so the flexible hours appeal to me. Plus I like that I get to decide how much I work. I can really push if I want and do well.”
He nodded and grinned at me, friendly and conquering. My deception was to be the kind of acolyte he wanted. His smile told me I had succeeded.
“I think we can work something out,” he said. “If you work hard you won’t be small for long.”
He was the boss. He let me start with half of what the usual minimum order would be.
“You’ll be back soon, won’t you?” he said as I counted out the money.
Luckily I had enough cash. I didn’t have a credit card with Deborah Perkins name on it. “I have every intention of doing the best I can,” I said. My best wouldn’t have anything to do with selling Nature’s Beautiful Gift, however. As I was signing the paperwork in Deborah Perkins’s loopy handwriting, I asked softly, “What do you think might be best for someone who’s really ill? Is there anything that might help?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I have a…relative, someone close to me…who has cancer. It’s…not looking good.” My words were slow because I still was ambivalent about using cancer, and therefore Cordelia, for something like this. But he took my hesitation for sorrow, not ambivalence.
“That’s hard to say. There are some things that might help. Immune booster is always good. It also depends on where and how bad.”
“Lymphoma,” I said. “Stage three.” That was it, my deal with the devil. But I couldn’t come up with a good lie and the truth all too conveniently served my purpose.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. He really did look sorry. Then added quietly, “There might be something else. Something I’ve heard about. I’ll have to check on it. Call me in a few days.” He gave me his business card.
He was too important to call me; I had to call him. That worked for me. I could get a cheap cell phone with a number that had nothing to do with Micky Knight, private investigator.
I thanked him, we shook hands, and I walked away. I understood our interaction was over, that he had to move on to the next conquest, even if it was checking Vincent and the other man’s paperwork.
Vincent had his two young girls following him around, so we all trooped down to the parking lot. There was still a damp drizzle, but at least the rain had slowed. Vincent, being the youngest and probably most eager disciple, was tasked with unloading the NBG truck and doling out to us the product we now had to sell. The two girls were vying to be the last one and therefore alone with Vincent. I was more than happy to assist by hurriedly backing my car up to the truck, popping the trunk and quickly hefting the boxes I had bought—ten bottles of eight of the most popular items, plus ten sample packs, which were priced at two dollars and fifty cents apiece. I’d purchased the bottles for ten dollars apiece and was supposed to sell them for nineteen-ninety-five each. Close to 100 percent mark-up.
I’d lost track of the private cop after getting in line and thought maybe I had been wrong about him. But then I spotted him in a nondescript car at the end of the parking lot watching us.
I managed to close my trunk and pull out just as the sky opened up again. Those poor girls. The rain was going to cause their makeup to run.
Chapter Nineteen
I swung by my office long enough to change out of the pink shirt and the rhinestone jeans. So not my style. I wasn’t sure what to do with the eighty pill bottles—plus ten sample packs—in my trunk, but carting them up three flights of stairs to my office didn’t seem an appealing option.
I didn’t even bother checking messages—they could hold until tomorrow. It would give me something to do while waiting for Cordelia.
She might be home by now, but I did a quick run by the grocery store. As quick as I could, given the distance. I planned to make a big pot of chicken soup tonight. I’d freeze some of it. That way she’d had something decent and quick to eat when she wasn’t feeling well. Sports drinks—they’re good if you’re dehydrated. Plus a really good meal tonight, a decent bottle of red, filet mignon, some shrimp for an appetizer, spinach salad, and asparagus as the side. And some wickedly sinful ice cream for dessert.
She was indeed home. She even smiled as I unloaded the grocery bag.
“Thank you,” she said as she put the ice cream away. “But you don’t need to cook two big meals tonight. I can’t eat after midnight and I doubt I’ll want to eat much tomorrow. So the chicken soup can wait.”
No it couldn’t. Not for her, but for me. Cooking would keep me busy, keep me focusing on whether the chicken was tender or not and did it need more salt or more carrots? I dreaded tomorrow, didn’t want it to come, and maybe if I kept myself distracted enough, it would get here without my agonizing over it. And once it was here, then I knew what I had to do. Go with her, stay with her, not let my worry become her burden.
I insisted she take it easy, sit and read. I poured the wine, gave her a glass while I chopped and diced for the soup. Once I had that on and simmering, I prepared our meal, grilling the shrimp, steak, and asparagus. It was a nice enough evening that we were able to eat outside. We didn’t say much, held hands between cutting the steak, watched the last glimmer of the sun set. The days were getting longer, warmer.
Then we went back inside. She let me work as if knowing that I needed to—needed to do the little things like scrub out the shower because the big things were so out of my control.
I didn’t sleep well and the morning came too early.
Cordelia usually doe
s early mornings, or what I call early. It was odd to see her up but not dressed as she usually is, in something professional. Instead she was in baggy jeans and a T-shirt. She was the patient today.
She couldn’t eat breakfast, I didn’t want to.
We got in the car and drove to the doctor’s office.
We were a little early; few other people were there.
“I put all my legal documents in the top drawer of my desk,” she said. Today was the day to talk about the things we didn’t want to talk about. “Updated will, medical and legal powers of attorney. The key to the safe deposit box is also there.”
“Safe deposit box? What’s in that?”
“Some jewelry from my grandmother and mother. Stuff I don’t wear, but it has too much sentimental value to sell or give away. Copies of things like my birth certificate.”
“You know this is like carrying an umbrella—it only rains when you don’t have one,” I said.
“That’s my hope. It just makes sense to take care of everything anyway.” In a change of subject, she said, “You don’t need to come in with me if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit there and Jennifer will stick a needle in my arm.”
“If you don’t want me there, I’ll stay here. Otherwise I’ll go with you.”
She nodded, seemingly relieved I’d chosen to stay with her. They called her name and we went down a long, pale blue hall to a small office. One chair like a dentist’s was in the middle of the room. That was clearly the patient’s seat. A wooden chair was crammed in the corner of the room. That would be mine.
The wait was short. First a nurse came in to check her vital signs. Then it was the nurse and the doctor, a woman who seemed too young to be doing this. Cordelia introduced me. They did what they needed to do, a needle in her arm, a fluid dripping into her veins.
It seemed small and anticlimactic, that her fate should be decided in a cramped office, outdated art on walls a beige color that would soon need to be repainted.
All I could do was sit and watch and keep out of the way.
After a while another doctor came in, another introduction. Cordelia was too young for this, so her friends were coming around. In a concession to space, I said I’d take a walk. One of the nurses pointed me to a little lounge just down the hallway. No one else was there.
I was there only a few minutes when Lydia came by. She didn’t expect to see me and I didn’t expect to see her. It was the same building where their office was, but a different floor.
“Hi,” she said. “Is Cordelia here?”
“Yeah, down the hall. She’s has a few visitors, so I vacated the space.”
“Figures. I came by to see how she’s doing. First time can be a bitch. I had thyroid cancer about ten years ago. Not a biggie. Small tumor, they cut it out. A little chemo and a thyroid pill every day for the rest of my life and I’m right as rain.”
“Hard to be the patient when you’re supposed to be the healer.”
“That’s the other bitch. Nothing like putting on those gowns to make you feel like a speck in the universe.”
“You heard about Reginald, right?” I asked. The insurance mess was nagging at me. Maybe Lydia would be the best person to bring it up to. And I could only hope I wasn’t so unlucky to choose the person responsible.
“Yeah, I did. I don’t get it. Why didn’t he come in for treatment?”
“Supposedly he did two days before he died.”
“What?” She looked taken aback. “What are you talking about?”
She was either a top-notch actor—swindlers often are—or she truly had no idea what I was talking about. The money and training required to be a nurse practitioner would likely discourage a crook from picking this as a cover.
“Reginald had paperwork that indicated his insurance paid for a doctor’s visit two days before he died.”
“That can’t be right. That’s a bizarre mistake.”
“When I searched his house I noticed a letter from his insurance company denying service because he was coming too often. They claimed there wasn’t justification for his condition needing treatment that frequently.”
“This is not making sense.”
“When I spoke to Eugenia, the other patient, she also mentioned insurance claims for visits she said she never made. At first I blew it off.”
“Wait,” she cut in. “What are you getting at?”
“Went the same place you’re going—has to be a mistake. But it’s a huge stretch to think that I just happened to stumble over the only two patients with these kinds of mistakes. And a mistake that only goes one way.”
“Where are you going with this?” Lydia still seemed puzzled. But she was a nurse, not a private detective.
“Anyone in your office doing really well? Claimed to have come into money recently?”
She stared at me. “Yes…but…no. It was an inheritance.”
“A long illness or an uncle you’d never heard of before?”
No, she wasn’t a good actress, because the look on her face gave me the answer she didn’t want to offer me.
“No, nothing like that,” she finally replied. “You’re saying someone is deliberately submitting false insurance claims.” Her tone was defiant, as if I couldn’t possibly be really saying someone she knew was committing fraud.
“That is what I’m saying.”
“Look, we just fired that receptionist,” she said. “Maybe she did something stupid.”
“You fired her for drugs, right?”
“Yes, but drug addicts will do anything.”
“Did she work with your billing?”
Lydia was silent for a moment, before finally saying, “She wasn’t supposed to, but she might have helped out on occasion.”
“Enough to have learned your system well enough to have rigged it so she could steal money and no one would notice?”
She didn’t answer. Instead she said, “This can’t be right. Look, I’ll figure it out in the next few days. Probably some computer error that’s gotten lodged in the system. This can’t be right,” she repeated, shaking her head. “I need to get back. Let me just stick my head in and say hi to Cordelia.” She started walking down the hall.
“Call me and let me know how wrong I am.”
She turned back to look at me. “I will do that.”
Then she disappeared through the door into Cordelia’s room.
What she had told me without telling me was she was aware of someone having money that couldn’t clearly be accounted for. They had a story, of course, one people would believe because they wanted to believe—we like to think we’re smart and savvy and that we couldn’t work day after day with a crook and not notice. But criminals are good at giving us the reality we want to believe in, especially the ones who stand beside you and steal when they think you’re not watching.
Despite Lydia’s claim that she needed to get back, it was a while before she came out. She passed me again with only a bare nod.
One of the other visitors had left at the same time, so I made my way back into the office, politely knocking at the door before I entered.
“Oh, it’s you,” Cordelia said as I came in. With, I was glad to note, relief in her voice. “They mean well, talking on the latest medical advances, letting me know I can get all the Oxycontin I might want,” said with a wry grimace indicating that she really didn’t want to think about major pain killers. “But…I’m not up for a social hour.”
In the short time I’d been gone, she’d changed, looking tired now, bags under her eyes, the drip mostly empty, the poison in her. I pulled the wooden chair out of the corner, placing it close enough that I could hold her hand, the one without the needle in her arm. She closed her eyes and put her head back. But there was a downturn to her mouth and a tightness to her features that told me she was not resting.
She looked up at me, struggling for a smile as if to say, See, this isn’t so bad, I can do it. But the smile faded and the tired look returned to her eyes
.
I held her hand until they came back in and took the needle out.
Again, it was the profound and ordinary. The palpable change in our lives measured out with a bandage on her arm, some more paperwork, another appointment. And then we were back out in the parking lot and getting in the car.
Halfway home, she reached into her bag and took out a plastic sack, holding it as if she might need it. She swallowed hard and then again, resting her head against the window.
I sped up slightly, wanting to hurry home, but not make it a jarring ride. When I looked at her again, her eyes were closed, her jaw tight.
At home, I quickly parked and jumped out to open the front door, not wanting her to wait. But she moved slowly, as if any jostle would be uncomfortable.
I held the door open. She went straight to the bathroom.
I followed her there, asking from the doorway, “What can I do?”
She was sitting on the toilet, still fully clothed, resting her head between her knees.
“Make it go away,” she murmured softly, as if not really speaking to me.
I stepped in, briefly touched her hand, then went back to the kitchen and found anti-nausea medication. Before I got back to the bathroom, I heard retching sounds.
Cordelia doesn’t like an audience when she’s sick. I’ve learned hovering behind her isn’t helpful. I filled a plastic cup with water, wet a paper towel, and placed them next to her, and then withdrew to the kitchen.
I started to do the dishes, then decided I’d put away the ones in the dishwasher, then decided wiping the counters down was quieter so I could listen if she needed me. And finally gave up, leaning miserably against the counter, unable to do anything but listen to her throwing up.
She finally emerged, wiping her face with the paper towel. “I’m sorry, I messed up my clothes,” she said, a euphemism meaning that her vomiting stomach had kicked her bladder into emptying. Two orifices and one toilet means something’s going to get messy. She shook her head slowly as if ashamed.
“That’s okay, we needed to do laundry anyway,” I said. “Let’s get you changed.”
Ill Will Page 22
